Remembering Whitney Houston

I still have her debut album, on vinyl, scratched with use and time. 

It was 1985. I remember listening to it over and over, and thinking it was the most amazing voice I had ever heard coming out of the most beautiful young woman I had ever seen. Three octaves smooth like butter. She became a staple in our home during the 80s and 90s, and my kids, born in '83 and '86, both remember growing up with her music. My daughter sang "The Greatest Love of All" in her middle school choir, and remembered all the words thanks to the constant rotation at home.





I have visceral memories of two of her movies, again related to my family.


We adopted viewing "The Preacher's Wife" as an annual holiday tradition, but my daughter, now 26, loved it so much she watched it over and over, year round.


Her favorite track from the movie:



And mine:



Just this morning, my almost 29 year old son and I were talking about her passing. He was visibly shocked and moved. His hard-core-rap-loving tough guy self, it turns out, had a soft spot for Whitney. He said "She was my girl. The Bodyguard. Oh my God." Me too, son, me too.





And who can forget her rendition of the Star Spangled Banner at the 1991 Super Bowl. The best, perhaps ever.





I remember her fading from my personal life soundtrack as troubles overtook hers and the hits slowly stopped coming. I was sad for her, but never stopped loving her music or hoping she would get over whatever demons gripped her and that she would come back. For us, for her.


Yet she is gone at 48. Preceded so recently by Don Cornelius, Etta James, Heavy D, and of course Michael Jackson. Others who left indelible marks on my life and the lives so many others. I feel so very sad about it all, this loss of artists/celebrities I never met. It's not the wrenching grief of losing a friend or a family member; it's sadness for the loss of people who gave us amazing music that is embedded deeply into our life's memories; artists who mark an era, a time, a place. Forever.


There is an irony when someone famous dies who has slipped into harder times, harder places. Like Michael Jackson, with Whitney's passing, we are flooded in every media/medium possible with tributes and clips of her good years, her greatest songs, her amazing talent. Last night when the news of her passing broke, Twitter was an online community conversation and remembrance. We forget the drama and difficulty. Instead, we remember the music, the gifts we all received, times when the music marked our lives. And we are grateful and in love all over again.


Rest in peace and music, Whitney.